


Draw back the curtain (let in the light)

by diabolica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Unresolved Sexual Tension, bedannibal in paris, gratuitous consumerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27009892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/pseuds/diabolica
Summary: In which Hannibal makes a proposal, and Bedeliareallyhates shopping.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36
Collections: Hannibal Bingo





	Draw back the curtain (let in the light)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my [Hannibal Bingo](https://hannibalbingo.tumblr.com) card, for the prompt "drawing". Eternal gratitude to the brilliant [dexstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexstarr) for beta-reading.

"I thought we could do some shopping today," Hannibal says over a late breakfast. 

"Shopping for what?" Bedelia asks. He’s been complaining about the unsatisfactory batterie de cuisine in their apartment, and she fears he means to drag her through every kitchenware shop within a five-kilometre radius. 

He surprises her by saying, "For you. There must be things you need. Clothes, cosmetics." 

While Bedelia is aware that clothes shopping in Paris would be some people's dream, she is not most people. It's Saturday. Wherever they go, there will be wall-to-wall people. She can't think of anything she would like to do less. She shrugs. 

"Books?" offers Hannibal. At that, she can't help but register interest. His expression is one of quiet triumph, which she would dearly love to wipe off his face. But he's right, she supposes upon reflection. They have no other plans for the day, and they've been living out of suitcases for over a week. If nothing else, she needs a few more pairs of underwear.

"All right," she says. She begins to mentally prepare herself. "Let's go shopping."

Which is how she finds herself in Printemps Femme. The multi-storey department store is noisy and deplorable and exactly as crowded as she feared. Bedelia is reminded, forcibly, of why she normally does all her shopping online.

Hannibal flags down a salesgirl and says in French, "Can you help us? My wife needs an emergency wardrobe. The apartment above ours flooded and it completely destroyed her closet. Along with everything in it."

The girl makes a suitably sympathetic face. She looks Bedelia up and down, no doubt taking in the cut of the clothes she is currently wearing, her shoes and jewellery. Her shrewd eyes appraise Hannibal's suit, his watch, then dart back to Bedelia. Bedelia can see her adding up sales goals.

"Of course," she says warmly. She smiles, and they are off.

Before Bedelia understands what is happening, the girl and two of her colleagues have herded her into a dressing room area. The girl Hannibal commandeered introduces herself as Sofie and begins firing questions at Bedelia about sizes and brands and colours. The three of them are touching Bedelia, hands running over her shoulders and down her arms as Hannibal watches, each talking at once, and the entire process would be headache-inducing if Sofie's colleague hadn't pressed a glass of something sparkling into her hand first. Hannibal has seated himself comfortably on a sofa, observing the proceedings like an emperor in the arena. He raises his own glass at Bedelia and winks as she is whisked behind a curtain.

The girls bring her clothes—dresses, skirts, blouses—half of which she rejects outright. Someone is despatched to the shoe department with her size and preferences, returning with a number of boxes. Sofie and her colleague talk Bedelia into a black wrap dress with a much lower neckline than Bedelia would normally choose and the colleague gasps. 

"That is gorgeous!" she says. Her eyebrows rise suggestively as she pulls back the curtain. "Your husband will _adore_ it."

Bedelia turns. A hand is on her back, urging her forwards. Hannibal is evaluating items on a rack with another shop assistant. He looks up; his eyes alight on Bedelia with avidity, with need.

"Merveilleuse," he mouths, directly to Bedelia. Then, aloud, he says sweetly, bringing his hands together as if he's begging her, "But mon cœur, mon trésor, ma belle, will you please let me buy you something that isn't black?"

Sofie and the girls laugh indulgently and look at Bedelia. Sofie says, "This one also comes in red." 

Her eyes on Hannibal, Bedelia says, "Then we’ll take both."

There’s no way he can know it, but the words _mon cœur_ have tripped something tender in her memory. It feels strange to speak French—a language she has always reserved for family, for her father and grandparents—with Hannibal. The shop girls she can somehow hold at arm's length with small talk, even as they zip her into and out of a dizzying number of dresses. Speaking her home language with Hannibal, even in front of an audience, goes deeper. It feels unbearably intimate, as if he has drawn back the curtain on something secret, something she never meant to show him.

It doesn’t help that Hannibal’s eyes trail over her body in a way that makes her feel exposed as he makes suggestions about hemlines and tailoring. To Bedelia’s intense annoyance, the shop girls back him up. 

"You'll need under things, as well, mon cœur," he says, and Sofie's colleague scurries to bring her a selection of bras, which the shop girls exclaim over as they fit her. Behind the curtain, on her second—or is it third?—glass of sparkling, Bedelia is starting to chafe at being half naked in front of strangers. Their hands are beginning to feel like Hannibal’s proxies, but the shop girls' clinical eyes are almost like a doctor's would be. This makes it easier to bear. 

A tape measure is produced; suggestions fly as to this brand or that if she finds one bra too uncomfortable or unflattering. They giggle like teenagers and tease that her husband will be _delighted_ with these purchases; they prompt her to try certain, more involved pieces, but Bedelia cuts them off. Tempting as it would be to spend Hannibal's money unnecessarily, she is adamant that all she needs are a few bras and knickers.

The whole ordeal takes hours, including trying things on, taking measurements, making decisions. Everything has to be tailored—ready-to-wear hemlines are always targeted for much taller women than Bedelia. The sparkling wine helps, but by four in the afternoon she is spent. She hasn’t eaten since breakfast, she can't remember the last time she spoke French for so long and her tolerance for people and their questions is about to snap. Eventually she calls a halt to the shop girls’ fun and begs Hannibal with her eyes to please get her out of here.

Hannibal pays, arranges for the clothes to be delivered, and takes possession of the bag that contains her new under things, couched beautifully in tissue paper. Preoccupied, Bedelia doesn't catch the total. She allows him to lead her to a cafe, to buy her a sandwich and a cappuccino, both desperately needed. He lets her eat, though he doesn't take anything himself. 

"Do you need any cosmetics while we're here?" he asks.

Bedelia wants nothing more than to leave and never return to another department store. Ever. But if they leave now, they will simply have to go shopping somewhere else on some other day, and that makes the decision for her. "I suppose," she says. She wonders if he isn't horrifically bored with this entire process. "I can be quick about it."

"Take your time," he says. He leans back, appearing perfectly at his ease. 

"You're enjoying yourself," she observes.

He nods. "I enjoy shopping," he says. "It awakens the hunting instinct in its way. Identify a target, track it, find it, acquire it." He takes in her expression. "You don't feel the same, I take it?"

"I cannot remember the last time I went shopping, in an actual brick-and-mortar shop, let alone in a department store." 

"I like to sample the goods," he counters. She pictures his hands running over fabrics, fluffing pillows, weighing kitchen equipment. Manipulating the sales staff. It does seem like the sort of thing he would take pleasure in.

When Bedelia has finished, they enter the lower level with its perfume counters and cosmetic gondolas. Having fortified herself in the café, her curiosity has returned and an idea has occurred to her. She has no idea where his money comes from—it can't come from his bank account in the States. Those assets must be frozen by now. So he must be drawing on other accounts, elsewhere, under other names perhaps. _Whose money are we spending?_ she wonders. She decides to test him, to see if he will baulk. Men, in her experience, have no idea what these items cost and are generally shocked by the prices. 

She picks up a little shopping basket and hands it to Hannibal to hold, running through a mental list of the items she left on her bathroom counter in Baltimore: cleanser, moisturiser, eye cream, serums. Bedelia has always preferred to spend her money on skin care rather than make up, but she picks up some of that too. The Lancôme girl is only too happy to find her foundation shade for her and to recommend a cheek pallet. Hannibal’s expression remains neutral as the basket begins to fill.

Mascara, eyeliner and eyebrow pencils, as well as a couple of Marc Jacobs eye shadow pallets go into the basket, followed by a few lip products, a handful of makeup brushes. Bedelia even throws in a couple of bottles of nail polish. She ignores the perfumes; she can't imagine trying to find her preferred fragrance in the maze of perfume counters. 

Within 30 minutes she has recreated her entire kit. Hannibal passes the shopping basket to a cashier to ring up. Bedelia herself feels some surprise when the total comes to just under two thousand euro.

Hannibal doesn't blink, only gives the cashier his card and accepts the two bags that she hands back to him. Taking them in one hand, together with the bag containing Bedelia’s new underwear, he offers Bedelia his free arm and leads her out of Printemps.

His financial reserves must be significant, she thinks. This bears some consideration.

It is blissful relief to breathe air that doesn't smell of a thousand competing perfumes. After that experience, Bedelia feels like she needs a nap, so she is silently grateful as Hannibal hails a taxi. But the street he gives the driver isn't theirs, and she looks at him quizzically.

"There's one more stop I want to make." He smiles at the expression she makes. "It will be quick, I promise." 

Bedelia's too worn out at this point to wonder what he's about. She only hopes he'll be as good as his word. The taxi drops them on a corner she doesn't recognise. It appears to be lined with jewellery shops. Hannibal selects one, rings a bell and waits to be admitted.

A buzzer sounds and the two of them enter the shop. A man in his 60s is behind the counter. Hannibal smiles, greets him politely in French. When the man asks what he can do for them, Hannibal says, "We need wedding rings."

The penny drops. Bedelia says, "Oh."

"Congratulations," the man says.

"Thank you so much," Hannibal says, all politesse and guile. He turns to Bedelia, takes her left hand in his and kisses it. "I want to get a ring on her finger before she changes her mind." 

The man chuckles. He begins by taking out a ring sizing tool and taking measurements from both of them, chatting amiably about metals and stones as he works. Bedelia has been stunned into silence. The link coupling her mind to her body seems to have been disconnected. 

"When is the ceremony?" the man asks.

"Next week." Hannibal smiles meaningfully at Bedelia. "I've been asking her for years. Now that she's finally said yes, I don't want to wait any longer."

The jeweller turns to Bedelia. His expression says how lovely it is to see people in love. "And how did he convince you to finally say yes?"

"He tricked me into it," Bedelia says archly.

The jeweller laughs, as if she is merely being witty. Hannibal's eyes sparkle with mischief. She wants to slap him, but after the rush and hustle of that enormous department store she lacks the energy, and she thinks this must have been part of his plan. 

Trays of rings come out, every setting imaginable. The jeweller invites her to begin trying them on. Hannibal regards her expectantly. Bedelia hesitates, overwhelmed.

"I can't choose," she says truthfully.

The man behind the counter nods, thoughtful. "I can see that for you the ring is not so important," he says. "The important thing is to be married, yes?"

"Yes," Hannibal says. "That is the most important thing."

The jeweller takes pity on her, even if Hannibal won't. He chooses two rings, one with a square-cut diamond, and one whose diamond has a tear-drop shape. "These should be about your size without adjustment. Which do you like?"

Hannibal takes her hand again and says, "May I?" She nods. First he slips the square-cut diamond onto her finger, which fits well enough but is perhaps a bit loose. He removes it and replaces it with the tear-drop shaped diamond, which fits quite exactly. 

"I like this one," she says, touching the tear-shaped diamond with her fingertip. It's appropriate, somehow.

"Then we will take that one," says Hannibal. He removes the chosen ring from Bedelia’s finger and hands it back to the jeweller. For himself he chooses a simple gold band. The jeweller makes note of the date of their supposed wedding ceremony and says he would be happy to engrave the bands for them if monsieur would like to pick them up the day after tomorrow?

"Of course," says Hannibal, always gracious.

When the jeweller has bowed them out of his shop and they are back on the pavement again, Bedelia blinks against the sunset.

"We're not far," Hannibal says gently. "It's just a few hundred metres to the apartment, if you don't mind walking."

Disoriented, Bedelia says, "No, I don't mind." He still has her shopping bags in one hand. She takes his other arm and follows his lead. "You haven’t actually arranged for us to be married next week, have you?"

"Why? Would you like to?" he asks.

"Hannibal."

"Personally I feel no particular need to have the state sanction my relationships. But I meant what I said—" 

"What? That you’ve been trying for years to tell me how you feel?" she asks, sceptical.

"If I would like to be a husband to you, is that so strange? You possess many qualities that I find attractive. I think you know that."

Bedelia does know that, has known it for years, but it isn’t the point. "Why do you keep telling people I’m your wife?"

"Would you rather I say you’re my mother?"

At this, Bedelia has to laugh. She had forgotten in their time apart how Hannibal’s conversation could turn in such exasperating and unexpected circles. When she speaks again, her tone is more controlled. "If you’re so keen to be a husband to me, do you think you might start by consulting me on decisions that affect me?"

"I have consulted you. You just chose your own ring."

She gives him a look, one she’s given him countless times in session, when she knows he isn’t being perfectly honest. She can see the point in this ruse; anyone looking for Hannibal Lecter will be looking for a single man, not a married couple. That’s no reason to make it easy for him.

"Marriage is a social construct," Bedelia reminds him. _Like professional ethics,_ she thinks. _Like the law._ "You believe social constructs to be largely meaningless, as I recall."

Dismissive, he says, "In this case, it’s what other people believe that matters. Couples our age wear rings. It’s expected." 

_So we’re a couple now?_ she wants to say. She’s irritated— _Why couldn’t they have discussed this, like adults? Why must he put her on the spot like that?_ —but there’s no point explaining to him her own views on marriage. This wasn’t part of her plan in coming to Europe with him. 

Her mistake.

He’s watching her closely, knowingly, as if he can tell what she’s thinking. "You’re here with me," he says. "That in itself indicates a certain level of commitment."

They continue walking, taking a left at the next corner. They’ve reached a street she recognises now; they’ve almost arrived at the apartment. He grins rakishly at her. "We can always make it official later, if you really want to."

She glares at him, which makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. Hannibal starts to tell her what he has planned for dinner, and Bedelia realises she is starving. But she'll need a good long soak in the tub, meaning some time alone to think, before she can eat.

**Author's Note:**

> I may be _slightly_ obsessed with Hannibal asking Bedelia to marry him in strange and oblique ways. Anyone else? ~~Please tell me it isn’t just me.~~
> 
> I’m also on [tumblr](https://plain-as-pandemonium.tumblr.com/). Do drop in and say hello!


End file.
